The True Story of What Was
by Savage Midnight
Summary: Chloe, Dean, and the story of what was.


**Title: **The True Story of What Was  
**Author: **Savage Midnight  
**Rating: **PG-13  
**Disclaimer: **I don't own 'em. Can you imagine what would happen if I did?  
**Summary: **Chloe, Dean and the story of what was.  
**Author's Note: **This is the full version of fic I wrote for medie's Kiss-a-Thon challenge. It's a little sketchy in places, but currently finished until I think of something new and shiny to add. I dedicate this to clarksmuse and pen37 for their pure devotion to the Winchullivan community.

---

They sacked her from the Daily Planet after she chose to chase the wrong story, of which the name attached to it was Lex Luthor, a man fairly capable of pulling the right strings to get her fired.

She ended up at some cheap, far-fetched rag, and she would have been bitter about it had she not remembered the infamous Perry White and how he'd managed to crawl his way back out of the ruins of his career and rebuild his reputation. She waited for that day to happen eagerly and as a result her files on Lex Luthor, bulging at the seams, were always kept open.

It retrospect it was a stupid idea. She should have known Lex wouldn't have given up that easily. While she waited for the day she'd finally bring him down, another day came instead. She left work only to narrowly miss a bullet to the temple, and after fleeing home she found her apartment empty, a suicide note written in her clear, precise handwriting, and the files on Lex gone.

She left Metropolis that night, fake passport clenched between clammy hands. She hid behind messily-dyed chestnut hair and thick glasses, and she thanked God every step she took for being cautious enough to always have a back-up plan. The safety deposit box had always been there, even before Lex Luthor, and it was paranoia that filled it; fake identities, papers, money, everything she would need to disappear.

And so she did. Chloe Sullivan left Metropolis behind and became Sarah Clark of Boston, Massachusetts.

In retrospect it was a stupid idea.

---

She was seven months into her new life when everything escalated from screwed-up to royally fucked-up. There really wasn't anything wrong with a capable young woman walking home alone a little after dusk; after all, this was Boston. You weren't really alone anywhere until you were hidden away in your own apartment. And it wasn't as if she'd expected to be propelled with unnatural speed down a dank, dark alley, and honestly, being alone and being a woman had not, in retrospect, been prominent factors in her abduction.

Either way, she'd been more than a little thankful that she was still alive to have any retrospection at all.

Being slammed up against a wall, having the air knocked out of her and clumps of her hair ripped from her scalp had been fun. And sobering. And she'd wondered briefly why everyone always picked on the damn females, because it wasn't like they were the only ones who could be rendered powerless by a good body slam and a hand wrapped around their throat.

After that her brain had sort of short-circuited, because the woman -- yes, a woman, and fuck if that hadn't been a revelation -- attached to that hand had had fangs, and for a fleeting second she'd wondered why these goddamn meteor-infected, batshit crazy people wouldn't just quit following her around.

And then, before she'd even had chance to fight or scream or do whatever it was that she hadn't yet decided to do, the bitch had _disintegrated_. She hadn't even seen the gleam or heard the swish of a machete before the hand clenched around her neck crumbled into ashes, but she definitely hadn't missed the man holding it.

She'd remember that night for the rest of her life. As the night she'd almost died; as the night she'd learnt that there were worse things out there than Lex Luthor and meteor freaks.

And as the night she first met Dean Winchester.

---

Fourteen months later and she knew more than she wanted to. Her Wall of Weird had grown to fill an entire room and now she had more to worry about than the usual, run-of-the-mill meteor freak. She'd seen Dean all of four times, had been introduced to his brother, Sam, on his second excursion, and had grown a slight crush on him by the third.

On his fifth visit, in town to track down a pair of werewolves, he kissed her. And it wasn't gentle or warm or soft. It was hot and hard and it ended with her pressed against her Wall, articles torn from their pins and floating around them. Her legs were curled around his waist and his mouth was searing a trail down her neck, and she was officially, blissfully, hooked.

She forgot all about werewolves and vampires and how this couldn't -- wouldn't -- work. Because he was Dean and she knew enough about him to know that nothing else mattered to him but his brother and the hunt and protecting what was his. She didn't want him to give that up, not ever, but she knew it meant that he couldn't stay, would never be able to stay, and she wasn't sure she could live with the waiting. She'd waited for Clark, once upon a time, and she remembered how tired it had made her. She didn't want to do it again.

In retrospect she should have known better.

---

In the third year, on his thirteenth visit, she ended it.

It started with her chasing down a story on the wrong side of town and ended in a screaming match between herself and Dean in the middle of a car park. Somewhere in-between was a show-down involving herself and her supposed source, a half-baked, middle-aged man with a penchant for pretty blondes and ritual sacrifices. The last part had been a revelation, and after ramming her stun-gun into his gut and clocking him in the head with her booted foot, she'd hightailed it to her car and headed for the nearest bar.

Dean found her there forty minutes later. Sliding himself on to the stool behind, he ordered a beer and glanced at her sideways, saying nothing.

She didn't bother to ask how he'd known she was here. He'd known she'd been tracking this story for weeks and he'd known that she'd been determined to venture into the shady part of town to follow this lead. He'd even warned her against it, so Chloe really wasn't all that surprised that he'd come here looking for her.

What did surprise her was how haggard he looked. She'd seen him look tired before but this was different. He was pale and subdued and every time he lifted his beer to his lips she could see the slight tremor in his hands. He didn't speak at all, just sat in stony silence as they drank beer after beer.

He was angry. That much was obvious. But Chloe felt no compulsion to explain herself. She hadn't done anything wrong. Yes, she'd made a mistake that had put her life at risk, but she'd handled it, just like she always did. She hadn't needed -- still didn't need -- Dean Winchester to save her, just like she hadn't needed Clark Kent. And she'd be damned if she was going to apologise for it.

After her second beer she called it quits and slipped her coat on. She didn't wait to see if Dean was following her lead before she left, and it wasn't until she reached her car door that she heard him.

His arms fell heavy either side of her as she turned and she tilted her head up to see that he was seething, jaw clenched and face tight. She knew that look, knew what it meant, and something inside of her tightened in guilt.

He was scared. And there was only one thing that scared Dean; the thought that one day he wouldn't be enough, that he wouldn't be able to save those he cared about. She knew he carried that with him everywhere he went, and it was only reinforced by his own inability to save his parents.

Tonight she'd made him feel helpless and now he was furious.

"You _idiot_," he gritted out between clenched teeth.

"Dean--"

"Are you trying to get yourself killed?"

"Not particularly," she answered snidely and pushed him away so she could breathe. She didn't need this tonight. She was dirty, tired and irritated beyond belief.

She turned to open her car door with the full intention of abandoning him here so she could go home and sleep for a week, but Dean wasn't finished.

"You're off the case, Chloe," he said firmly. "Me and Sam will handle it."

She stiffened, her hand freezing on the door handle. She could feel her temper rising too fast and forced herself to count to ten before she made a run for him. Taking a breath, she turned slowly to look at him, feeling predatory and murderous. She stepped towards him and his eyes tracked her movements warily. Yes, she definitely felt predatory.

"Chloe--"

She backhanded him and the sound was a loud crack in the darkness. Dean's head snapped sideways under the force and Chloe calmly waited a few seconds for him to recover. She didn't want the ringing in his ears to muffle what she had to say.

"Let's get a few things straight," she said in a low, tight voice. "Firstly, you are not my keeper. Secondly, you have no say _whatsoever_ in what I do. And last but not least, if you ever talk down to me again, I will _end_ you. Got that?"

He said nothing, just stared defiantly down at her.

"I don't need you to save me, Dean," she said, moving back to her car and opening the door. This time he didn't follow her, and with her parting words, she slid behind the wheel and drove away.

"I never did."

---

In the fifth year, when she started slipping more and more into the hunt, she bumped into him at the Roadhouse. A few hours later he had her pressed up against the wall of the motel shower, lips sliding down the curve of her stomach. He whispered an apology against her skin but she pretended not to hear.

It was then that she realised she'd spent two years waiting for him, anyway, and nothing had really changed.

---

In the seventh year she told him she loved him. It would be the only time she would say it, quiet and broken as he lay unconscious.

---

In the eighth year a werewolf got the better of her and she ended up with teeth marks in her thigh. Afterwards she calmly called Dean and asked him to come to Boston as soon as possible.

He did and later, when she had explained what had happened, they sat together on the floor of her Room of Weird, fingers tangled together as she sobbed into his neck. And it was the only time she would ever see Dean Winchester cry.

Afterwards, he kissed her. And this time it was gentle and warm and soft, and his lips trembled against hers. She kept her eyes open the whole time and watched him and them and this.

It wasn't until he picked up the gun and levelled it at her head that she closed her eyes. He whispered an apology, voice broken and hoarse, and this time she didn't pretend not to hear.

"It's okay," she whispered, and smiled.

And then she took a deep, heavy breath, and waited.


End file.
